


Amyloid Fibers and Rail Guns - The Origins of Fitzsimmons

by valantha



Series: Hazy, Lazy, Crazy Academy Days [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (not Technobabble), Academy, First Meetings, Gen, Internal Monologue, Pre-Series, Science, Science Jargon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma's having second thoughts about Sci-Tech - she wants to discover new things and help people, but isn't sure if working for S.H.I.E.L.D. is the best way to achieve those goals - then she mets Fitz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. N-terminal Methionine

Jemma sat uncomfortably on the edge of her dorm bed, fidgeting with the turtleneck of her sweater. The room had to be more than 25 degrees, maybe even 28 degrees. Sweltering, even without the sweater.

Jemma wondered if she had made the wrong decision, coming here. Many of her colleagues and compatriots were finishing up their PhDs and looking for post-docs or jobs in Biotech, but here she was, back in a dorm room. She knew intellectually that the bright and airy Sci-Tech dorm was nothing like her musty old dorm at Sheffield University, but it felt the same. It felt like she was regressing. Bloody hell, she had a _class schedule_! She hadn’t taken a class since she completed her Master’s.

Jemma threw herself from the edge of the bed. She tugged on her woolen sweater whilst pacing around the post-modern dorm room. This was going to be an adventure, she tried to convince herself. She had been frustrated with the snails-pace of academic scientific progress – she wanted a new problem to solve every week, not spend months trying to purify one bleeding protein – and she knew the Biotech industry would have been even less to her taste.

When the ‘man in black’– well, actually he had been wearing a tasteful navy blue pinstripe suit, but that didn’t fit the archetypical descriptor – first approached her at a symposium on amyloid fibers and protein misfolding, she had been dismissive. She had wanted to be a professor since kindergarten, she was going to do a post-doc or two, find a junior faculty position at a good school and work her way up to a professorship.

But the man’s words taunted her. Teased at her subconscious. She wanted to do _more_. Sure her work on protein aggregation could lead to the cure for Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, Huntington’s, and type 2 diabetes, but she didn’t want to let her multitude of talents go to waste. She didn’t want to be bound by the limits of academic disciplines or vagaries of funding. She wanted to discover new things and help people.

She had thought on the man’s proposal and toyed with the man’s business card. She had toyed with the card so much it frayed, practically decomposing in her hand, revealing fine wires, transistors, capacitors, and other electronics she was unable to identify. She was so fascinated by the (literally) microscopic electronics that she didn’t even think to be annoyed by the invasion of privacy until weeks later. Instead her fascination only increased her desire to take the man’s offer. He promised cross-discipline training as well as support to continue her in-depth biochemical research. The best of both worlds – breadth and depth! Truly one of the biggest limitations of the British education system was the premature and marked specialization.

The proposal – the cross-training, the minimal-supervision maximum-support research, health insurance to die for, and Google-like benefits such as famous chefs rotating through the cafeteria, complimentary laundry service, and a killer (if seldom used) gym – was such that, as soon as she realized that working for S.H.I.E.L.D. was not going to be ‘giving up on her dream’ per se, she called the ‘man in black’ and set up an interview. But now, baking and pacing in the Sci-Tech dorm, she was having second thoughts – or more like seven hundredth thoughts.

Just as Jemma was about to yank off her stifling sweater, a repetitive rap rang from her door. Jemma tugged and smoothed down her mauve sweater, ran her fingers through hair, and answered the door.

She opened the door to reveal a young man, close to her own age with an awkwardly-eager grin and uncontrolled halo of brown curls. He shoved his free hand into his tweed jacket pocket and rocked slightly in his cherry-red Chuck Taylors.

“Um, hullo, I’m Fitz, Dr. Leo Fitz, engineering focus. I'm new too and I live down the hall and I saw you arrive and I was wonderin’ if you’d like me to show you where the cafeteria is an’ all…” rambled the young man.

 Jemma smiled, “I’m Jemma. Dr. Jemma Simmons, biochemistry, and that sounds nice.”

Jemma grabbed her ID/swipe-card from the top of the bureau, shut her door, and asked Fitz about his research – a surefire way to break the ice with any scientist. As he began expounding on the issues of laminar flow and rail guns, she smiled again. This was certainly going to be an adventure. 


	2. Tryptophan Fluorescence

Fitz’s oration on rail guns took most of the walk to the cafeteria. Jemma understood no more than one in four words, but was intrigued by his obvious passion and animated illustrative gestures.

Jemma had just begun her ‘elevator speech’ on protein aggregation disorders when they arrived in the cafeteria and Fitz interrupted to explain the pros and cons of the various stations. He left for the sandwich station, having done his duty, and threw a warning over his shoulder, “Watch out for the first year stone! ***** ”

Jemma wandered around for a bit before selecting the stir-fry queue. She was quite surprised at the variety and diversity of the food available. There were several build-your-own stations – such as the sandwich, stir-fry, salad, pasta, and smoothie stations – as well as varied pre-prepared meals from fish and chips and pizza to curries and paella.

As Jemma approached the head of the queue, she eyed the stir-fry possibilities greedily before selecting tempeh, bok choy, red pepper, and carrots. The nice young chef whipped up a mouthwatering stir-fry and plated it with style on a bed of jasmine rice. Jemma added a Thai coconut sauce and _hmmed_ with satisfaction. Far easier and tastier than what she would have prepared for herself on a normal Thursday night; maybe she _had_ made the right decision to join S.H.I.E.L.D.

Jemma grabbed a bottle of a bitingly bitter IPA from the amazingly well stocked beer fridge to complement her dinner and found the nice young engineer siting at a table with a cluster of similarly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed individuals.

Fitz facilitated the introductions of Dr. Sanjay Desai, condensed matter physics; Dr. Makayla Washington, aeronautical engineering; Dr. Ella Williamson, biomedical engineering; Dr. Joseph Novak, organic synthesis; and Dr. Cho Hye-jin, pharmacology.

They all were new cadets awaiting the beginning of what was colloquially known as ‘spook school’: a three-week introduction to S.H.I.E.L.D. and espionage skills.

Cho – a petite woman with glossy waist-long black hair – had been here the longest, having arrived a week prior. She exuberantly began filling Jemma in on the cutting edge instrumentation in the biochemistry labs, “There is a next-gen Illumina sequencer, a ultra-fast FACS system, and a spinning disk confocal microscope! They have pretty much every sort of mass spec imaginable: A LC-MS, a GC-MS, an ICP-MS, a LC-MS-MS.”

Novak – a lanky blond man with some sort of Eastern European accent – added, “And their NMR core is amazing: they have a couple of 400 MHz's, a 600 MHz, a 700 MHz, a 800 MHz, and a brand-new solid-state NMR!”

Cho and Novak tag-teamed the impromptu instrumentation inventory with Williamson – a tall redhead from Australia – piping in on the single-molecule set-ups.  Jemma doubted she’d ever use all of these different techniques, but it was delightful to know that she had the equipment if she wanted to. She’d be hard-pressed to find one university department with half this instrumentation! Another check in the pro-S.H.I.E.L.D. column.

Fitz, Desai, and Washington started their own conversation, which was even more abstruse to Jemma’s ears. Something about spectral separation and evanescent waves, whatever those were.

Once Jemma, and most everyone had finished their meals, the ebb of conversation shifted once more, as conversations were want to do. Jemma found herself in the middle of a heated debate over the extent to which S.H.I.E.L.D. was Big-Brothering them.

The debate started over beer, as many debates do.  Williamson asked Desai to grab her a beer as he was going to grab dessert anyways.  

He liltingly replied, “I do not wish for S.H.I.E.L.D. to see me contributing to the intoxication of a classmate.”

Williamson rolled her eyes, “One: two beers over dinner does not constitute intoxication, and two: S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t monitor our alcohol intake.”

Cho interjected as ‘senior’ cadet, “Actually, according to rumors, they do. Ten or more drinks a week gets you a session with a therapist.”

“Really?!” asked Fitz incredulously, “They would have sent me to the therapist nearly every week during my PhD.” – which sparked a rash of commiserative laughter and agreement from most of the table, Jemma included. There were a few dark months during her PhD where she simply wouldn’t have survived without her neighborhood pub.

“However,” commented Washington, “Nine beers a week doesn’t seem too bad, even if you do have a continental drinking culture. That’s one drink with dinner and two on the weekends – not that we really _have_ weekends…”

Jemma smiled at that sentiment. Scientific progress abided no timetables, you worked when the science dictated.

“You’re ignoring the absurdity of the matter, here we are, all adults, all with doctorates, having our _every_ move watched by S.H.I.E.L.D. _Even_ the CCCP didn’t do that – though the KGB probably would have wanted too,” added Novak.

“We all did sign a contract to that effect,” Jemma interposed.

“It’s not really about the legality of the snooping though,” replied Fitz.

“No?” asked Jemma.

“It’s about the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. is watching us 24/7,” he responded.

This likely hyperbolical statement spawned sidebars over the extent to which this statement was true.

Jemma’s favorite sidebar was between Desai and Washington in which he wondered if S.H.I.E.L.D. had surveillance in the restrooms and she replied in complete seriousness with the evidence ‘they did in Ender’s Game.’

As the side conversations either wrapped up or moved off, Jemma returned to the main topic, “It makes sense that S.H.I.E.L.D. does watch us. We are some of the brightest minds in the world, and soon we will be privileged to some very confidential information and detailed espionage training as well as the best equipment and materials. Far be it for someone to put that to nefarious ends.”

“Nefarious ends! You talk as if we are all budding Dr. Nos. We all were thoroughly psychoanalyzed to weed out future super-villains,” exclaimed Fitz.

Jemma retorted, “And a super-genius couldn’t fool the psychologists? Or pull a Dr. Banner?”

“That is very true,” acceded Fitz, “however, there is issue of wasted man-hours…”

The rest of Jemma’s new classmates trickled off, leaving her and Fitz arguing – the receding-advancing, circuitous arguments of two people armed with rhetoric and opinion but no hard facts or firm judgments. The arguments of two people who enjoyed speculation and thinking things out verbally without a bullheaded need to be right or inability to admit their own logical fallacies.

The argument only came to a close when the cafeteria kitchen did, startling Jemma out of her “debate” mode.

As they walked back to their respective rooms, Jemma recommenced her ‘elevator speech’ on protein aggregation disorders, finding Fitz to be a relatively informed and interested listener. The biophysical principles behind protein aggregation were not too dissimilar from the mechanical principles plaguing some of his more ambitious projects.

They were neck deep in chemical property comparisons when they arrived at Jemma’s door. Unthinkingly, Jemma released a hearty sigh.

Fitz looked inquiringly at her, and she replied unfiltered, “My room is just _so_ hot, I don’t want to go in.”

Fitz gave her a cheeky grin and doffed an imaginary hat, saying leadingly, “I am very handy…”

Jemma grinned at his buffoonery, and asked politely, “Would you mind taking a look at my furnace or thermostat or whatever?”

Fitz agreed easily, and once Jemma opened the door, he went to the thermostat straight away, stepping over her luggage with headless grace.

Within moments he murmured, “Ah ha!”

Jemma walked over, and leaned over Fitz’s shoulder. If she stretched a wee bit she could get a good look at the control panel he was poking at.

Fitz explained softly, “The wanker who lived here last set this thing for 80 degrees.”

“Eighty degrees!!!” exclaimed Jemma.

“Fahrenheit,” amended Fitz.

“Oh,” that made more sense, the room was merely _figuratively_ scorching hot.

“Fecking Imperial system,” muttered Fitz, eliciting a chuckle from Jemma.

“What temperature would you like the room?” he asked.

“Twenty degrees?”

Fitz muttered a bit, and Jemma caught only the phrase “9/5ths” before Fitz stepped back – nearly bumping into Jemma – and dusted off his hands for show.

Almost instantaneously, the heaters turned off.

“Oh thank you Fitz!” Jemma exclaimed, “How ever can I repay you?”

Fitz blushed cherry-red and stuttered something incomprehensible. Jemma took a mental step back, she didn’t mean to discomfit the poor man so entirely.

“Thank you,” she said, putting out her hand to shake. Fitz shook her hand with a solid two-pump shake and fled her room.

 _He certainly was an interesting fellow_ , Jemma though with a half-smile before turning to luggage and beginning to unpack. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * A stone is a British unit of human body weight, equivalent to 14 pounds or 6.4 kg.


	3. Cysteine Disulfide Bond

Jemma knocked on Fitz’s door, fidgeting with the hem of her periwinkle sweater absentmindedly. She really ought to train herself out of the habit. Her sweaters always ended up misshapen or holey.

After an inordinate amount of time – likely only 45 seconds – Fitz opened the door.

“Good Afternoon Fitz,” Jemma began brightly, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you might be able to tell me where the tea room was?”

Fitz was wiping some sort of grease off of his hands and onto the seat of his trousers – yuck! – as he replied, “Tea room?”

The grin on Jemma’s face began to fade, “You know, tea room, break room, coffee room?”

Her grin disappeared completely at Fitz’s puzzled facial expression. She knew for a fact that universities in Edinburgh had tea rooms too. He had to know what she was talking about.

“Sorry. Sci-Tech doesn’t have a tea room per se,” Fitz said.

Jemma sighed, “Thank you. Sorry to bother. I asked Cho and she said the same thing. I was just hoping it was a translation issue or cultural difference.”

As Jemma started walking down the hall, shoulders hunched glumly – definitely a check in the anti-SHIELD column – Fitz called after her, “I was about to fix a cuppa, if you’d like to join me?”

Jemma turned around, practically skipping, and added politely, “If it’s not an inconvenience?”

Fitz replied, “No, no. No trouble. I’ve got a big stash of Yorkshire Gold.”

That reminded Jemma, “Oh! I have some biscuits in my room. My mother made them. They go smashing with tea. I’ll go grab them.”

Jemma noticed Fitz tensed a bit at the mention of her mother. There was something there she ought not pry into.

As Fitz left to fill up a _very_ oddly shaped electric kettle, Jemma scampered back to her room for the biscuits.

By the time she had hurried back with her baggie of biscuits, Fitz was already pouring boiling water into the mismatched mugs.

“I, uh, don’t have sugar, but I do have milk,” Fitz said as Jemma set the biscuits on a corner of Fitz’ desk.

“That’s good,” Jemma replied, glancing around Fitz’ room, attempting to be inconspicuous – it was a sty. Fitz had bits and bobs, blueprints, AutoCAD printouts etc. on almost every flat surface, and clothes on all the rest. _He hadn’t been here very long, how could he generate such chaos in such a short period of time?_

Fitz must have noted her observations, and scooped a pile of clean (?) laundry off of his chair and onto his blueprint-covered bed.

“Here you are,” he said before returning to fussing with the tea.

Jemma sat as bid, and looked at the electrical diagrams on the desk for a moment or two before going bug-eyed, and started to investigate Fitz’ library instead. He had a lot of hard sci-fi: Asimov, Brin, Herbert, Niven, and Stephenson.

Fitz placed a ‘proper cuppa’ at her elbow, and followed her eyes, “Oh I’ve got a lot more on my StarkTab, but these are the books I just couldn’t bear to leave behind.”

“I understand completely. I’ve got all the Harry Potter books on my tab but there is just something more about reading the physical copies,” Jemma replied.

“You mean the wrist exercise?” Fitz joked.

Jemma rolled her eyes and took a sip of the tea. Scalding hot, rich, full-bodied, with the cream cutting the tannin-y bite. Excellent. She’d forgotten how good Yorkshire Gold was; at home she usually went with the cheaper Tetley Tea.

Fitz picked up his cuppa and leaned against his dresser, “So, um, ‘asides Harry Potter, what sort of books do you like?”

“Well I like a lot of the same. Asimov’s Robot Series, Brin’s Glory Season, and Stephenson’s The Diamond Age are among my favorite,” gesturing at Fitz’ copies of those books. “I also like Sargent, Sawyer, Vinge – hey have you read Niven’s The Integral Trees?” Jemma asked noting the lack of one of her favorite Niven novels.

“Yeah, it’s brill but I don’t have a copy. It’s out of print,” Fitz replied and then returned to an earlier statement, “You like Asimov’s Robot Series better than his Foundation Trilogy?!”

“Yes, R. Daneel Olivaw is such a neat character and the buddy cop thing is great, not to mention exploring the different cultures of the Earthers and the Spacers. Biscuit?” Jemma offered.

“But but but _psychohistory_!!!” blathered Fitz as he grabbed a biscuit and dunked it into his tea to soften. 

The book talk continued far past teatime - biscuits and tea vanishing rapidly - with Fitz admitting his appalling ignorance of any of Pamela Sargent’s works, and Fitz going on a long rant about the Dune saga after Jemma said she had such a hard time with the original one, she hadn’t read any of the rest.

It wasn’t until near dinnertime that Jemma realized how late it was, “Aw shite! I was planning on working on those GSTTAAF forms!”

“Oh, sorry, those _are_ a pain. Have you done the online stepstool training yet?” Fitz asked.

“Online stepstool training?”

“Yeah, the bureaucracy is so crazy here. There is a form and training for every possible hazard, including failing to use a stepstool properly and falling from it,” Fitz said with a grin.

Jemma didn’t know if he was telling the truth or having one on her, it could go either way. She did have to do a pretty intensive online biohazard training course just to enter the SHIELD BSL-1 lab, let alone the hands-on training she’d have to do to gain access to the more real hazards of various chemicals like ethidium bromide, IPTG, PMSF, and phenol.

Fitz must have sensed her skepticism and said, “It’s true, I had to take it too, and anyways freshmen pranks aren’t supposed to start until _after_ we finish ‘spook school.’ Have fun with those General Safety Training, Testing and Approval Forms!”

Jemma wanted to ask more about these ‘freshmen pranks’ but really did need to get working on those forms. She _had_ wanted to get them all done today so she could be permitted to get her hands wet and get a real look around the labs tomorrow before the spook school started on Monday.

“Thanks Fitz. See you at dinner?” Jemma asked.

“For sure,” replied Fitz as he turned back to sorting out his jumbled blueprints. 

 _That Fitz was a good chap; certainly a check in the pro-SHIELD column,_ mused Jemma as she walked back to her room and turned her mind back to her GSTTAAF's. 


End file.
